laughing as the severed jugular veins pumped out gouts of dark blood. He didn’t stop there. With a series of powerful chops, Spartacus beheaded the officer. Discarding his shield, he pulled off the transverse crested helmet and lifted the head by its hair. There was still a startled expression on the centurion’s features.
When he straightened, Spartacus saw the demeanour of the three legionaries before him change. Their fear morphed into complete terror, and then panic. ‘Catch this, you miserable bastards!’ he shouted in Latin, and tossed the still bleeding head straight at them. ‘You’re next!’
As one, they turned and ran.
Wild-eyed, Spartacus glanced to either side. The bodies of legionaries lay everywhere. He registered Carbo standing nearby, his sword at the ready. The third voice. Beyond, bright orange-red flames lit up the night sky. The silhouettes of men ran hither and thither, accompanied by screams and the clash of arms. ‘Someone’s fired a tent. Good idea. Better light to kill by,’ he muttered. There was a moan nearby, and Spartacus’ attention came crashing back.
Getas lay several steps away, both hands clutching a fearful wound at the top of his belly. Spartacus dropped to his knees. Even in the poor light, he could see the blood oozing thickly between Getas’ fingers. ‘What kind of fool are you?’ he chided.
‘He was going to kill you.’ Getas coughed weakly, and the flow of blood from his injury became a tide. ‘Better me than you.’
Spartacus’ throat tightened with grief. ‘Oh, my brother,’ he whispered. ‘You shouldn’t have done it.’
‘Yes, I should. You’re the leader. I’m only a warrior.’
‘The finest warrior ever to come out of Thrace.’
The trace of a smile flickered across Getas’ lips. ‘Don’t talk shit.’
‘I’m not,’ protested Spartacus. ‘The Great Rider himself will welcome you into paradise.’
‘The Great-’ Getas stopped. His eyes went wide and he took in a rattling breath.
Spartacus gripped him by the shoulder. ‘He’s waiting for you. Go well, my friend.’
Getas’ mouth went slack, allowing the last gasp to go free. His body sagged back, going as limp as a discarded toy.
Accept this brave man into your presence, Great Rider. If ever a warrior was worthy to serve you, it is Getas. Spartacus reached out and slid down Getas’ eyelids. With a heavy heart, he stood. As he registered what was going on, his grief was sublimated into a dark, brooding joy. Everywhere he could see, the legionaries were running. Running! ‘The fuckers have broken!’
‘Yes,’ said Carbo in an awed voice. ‘It happened after you killed that centurion. All the men who saw it turned and fled. They were screaming that there were maniacs and demons on the loose. That there was no hope.’
‘Maniacs and demons, eh?’ Spartacus laughed. ‘Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint them. Let’s gather the men and terrify them some more. Hound the bastards completely out of the camp!’
Is he scared of nothing? wondered Carbo as he followed Spartacus.
It seemed not.
It was soon apparent that the gladiators’ success was complete. Routed like an unruly mob charged by disciplined cavalry, the legionaries had fled into the night. They left behind everything: their clothes, weapons, food and supplies. The mules that had carried their heavy equipment from Rome were still tethered in lines by one entrance. To cap it all, the various units’ gilded standards and the very fasces of the lictores were found in a tent beside Glaber’s quarters. The magnificent armour found within proved that Glaber had also left in a hurry. Seeing the Romans’ most precious items abandoned hammered home to Spartacus the enormity of what they’d done. While the victorious gladiators engaged in looting, he stood in Glaber’s luxurious pavilion alone, marvelling. If it doesn’t signal my death, what in the Rider’s name does my dream mean?
‘Spartacus! Where is Spartacus?’
Outside, he found Carbo confronting a black-bearded German. It was the same man who’d refused him an audience with Oenomaus. ‘I’m here. What is it?’
The German pushed past Carbo. ‘You must come.’
The first needles of suspicion pricked Spartacus. ‘Why?’
‘It’s Oenomaus.’ The German’s blood-spattered face twisted with an unreadable emotion. ‘He’s hurt.’
‘How badly?’
‘He’s dying. He asked for you.’
‘Take me to him.’ Spartacus glanced at Carbo. ‘You come too.’
Without another word, they ran along one of the straight avenues that bisected the camp. The German led them to a group of silent figures standing in a rough circle by the irregular outline of a collapsed tent. The corpses of at least a dozen legionaries littered the area. Cursing, the bearded man pushed through the throng. Spartacus and Carbo followed.
Oenomaus lay on his back within the ring. He was pale-faced, and his eyes were closed. Someone had laid a cloak over him, but the massive red stain in the fabric over his chest told its own grim story. No one can lose that much blood and live, thought Carbo.
Spartacus looked at the black-bearded German, who gestured that he should approach. He knelt and took Oenomaus’ hand. It was cold to the touch. Is he dead already? ‘It is I, Spartacus.’
Oenomaus did not respond.
‘Spartacus is here,’ said the black-bearded man loudly.
Oenomaus’ eyelids fluttered for a moment, and then opened. Dimly, he focused on Spartacus, who leaned in close. ‘You wanted to see me?’
‘Your plan… worked.’
Spartacus squeezed Oenomaus’ hand. ‘It did, thanks to you and your brave men.’
Oenomaus’ lips gave the tiniest twitch upwards.
Spartacus knew that the German’s life was ebbing out fast. ‘What did you want to say?’
Oenomaus’ mouth opened, but instead of words, a torrent of blood gushed out. It covered Spartacus’ hand, and dripped to the ground as Oenomaus relaxed for the last time. Spartacus looked at his reddened fist before clenching it and lifting it in the air. ‘Oenomaus shed his blood for us! He was a good man and a strong leader. Let us honour his passing!’
A great roar went up from the German gladiators. Carbo joined in, oddly feeling more at ease with these hairy barbarians than he’d ever done with his peers in Capua.
Spartacus felt weary to the marrow of his bones. Getas is gone. Oenomaus, my only ally among the other leaders, is dead. That is a heavy price to pay for victory. A meaty paw was thrust in his face, and Spartacus stared at it, surprised. Then he accepted the grip, letting the black-bearded man haul him upright.
‘My name is Alaric.’
‘You have lost a great man here tonight.’
Alaric nodded. ‘The thread of his weave came to a fine end. I saw him kill at least six Romans before he took the mortal wound.’
Spartacus cut to the chase. ‘Who will lead you now?’
With a frown, Alaric turned to the assembled men and barked out a few sentences in his guttural tongue.
Spartacus clenched his jaw. It’s probably Alaric. Soon none of the other leaders will listen to me.
There was a rumble of agreement from the Germans. Alaric smiled.
Spartacus steeled himself for the inevitable.
‘We all agree. You must lead us.’
Spartacus blinked. ‘Me?’
‘That’s right. We are fighters, not tacticians or generals. None of us would have thought of using the vines, not even Oenomaus. That was pure genius.’
Spartacus looked from face to grim face. He saw the same certainty in each. ‘Very well. I would be honoured to lead you.’ Thank you, Great Rider! Now I have the largest faction. Crixus and the others are more likely to continue following where I lead.
In that moment, the loss of Getas and Oenomaus seemed a fraction less heavy.
The gladiators’ losses were light, all things considered — eight men had died, and a dozen had been injured. Of those, four would never fight again. The dead were buried where they’d fallen. It was as good a place as any,
